


perfectly imperfect

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Good Intentions, M/M, POV Peter Hale, Pack Dynamics, introspective Peter Hale, self sacrificing idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 10:33:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15071336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He wants to pull the boy close, and soothe away the stitch between his brows, ease the tightness in his shoulders. But he doesn't.





	perfectly imperfect

The stench of sadness and confusion coming from Stiles makes his stomach heave. 

He wants to pull the boy close, and soothe away the stitch between his brows, ease the tightness in his shoulders. But he doesn't. He let’s the sadness seep into his pores, lets the confusion blossom, and when he slips out, alone in the midst of the pack, Stiles doesn’t stop him. 

 

~*~

 

Stiles is--

Stiles is perfectly imperfect and deeply flawed, morally ambiguous and profoundly loyal, fragile human skin wrapped around the soul of a wolf, unflinchingly brave and stupidly reckless. He runs with wolves, and Peter thinks he is the bravest and best, the only one in the damn pack worth a damn. 

He’s the one who kept them alive, the one who figured out what was trying to kill them, and in the rare moments when they were safe--he was the one who demanded they be  _ more _ . More than strangers thrown together, more than soldiers in the same war. More than faces in a hall and companions on a full moon. 

Stiles forced them to be pack, dragged Peter into their midst and glared until they accepted his presence, yelled at Derek and Scott and Peter until they finally could stand to be around each other, and even then, Peter thinks it was more to appease the boy than anything else. 

He was human and fragile and imperfect, and when Peter watched him--Peter watched him far too much--he saw the perfect wolf he would be, the strength hidden in him, the alpha he would make, and he  _ wanted.  _

 

~*~

 

Stiles smells like rain and sweat, like chocolate cookies and, often, like burnt sugar, a sticky sweet arousal that deepened when he pressed near Peter, leaning over old tomes. 

Derek watches it with worry but Peter never turns into that arousal, never answers Stiles’ clumsy flirting. 

He showers the boy with affection and gifts, gives him more than he gives any of the ragtag group he calls pack, offers his food when the boy is too distracted to get his own--he provides and preens under Stiles’ sweet smile--but he never pursues. 

He frames it all in friendship, in gratitude, in  _ pack. _

It doesn’t fool Derek, and it doesn’t fool Peter. 

Hell, it probably doesn’t fool Stiles. But for now, it is enough. 

 

~*~

 

He spends time with Peter, and that is harder. 

After the fire, after his death and watching Scott use Derek, watching Derek’s betas run--there is a strong survival instinct that says,  _ protect yourself. _

His den is his, a safe, cozy apartment in downtown Beacon Hills, a small expensive thing that carries his scent in every line and cushion, and none of the pack knows where it is. 

None but Stiles. 

Stiles who showed up one night after a fight, shoved inside while Peter bled on his floor, and carefully put him back together before he made tea and grilled cheese and tucked them both into blankets on the couch to let Peter heal. 

He never asked if Peter wanted him there, just waltzed in, completely sure of his welcome, and now, months later, his scent soaks the couch and the kitchen, his pillows and blankets and clothes that Stiles is shameless in stealing, and Peter can inhale him, the rich scent of his boy on his sheets, sweet and warm and inviting, as he fucks his fist and aches for the one he wants. 

 

~*~

 

He knows. 

Stiles isn’t subtle. He watches Peter, his mouth open, his scent swollen with arousal, his hands twitching. 

He presses close, and leans into Peter’s warmth, makes a tiny noise of discontent, when Peter moves away. 

He reaches for Peter, first, always, after a fight, before  he remembers his brother and his alpha and his gaze flicks to them, but still his hands are steadying on Peter. 

He finds reasons to be close, to research and patrol with Peter, to spar with the still recovering beta, to never stray too far. 

And Peter knows. 

He knows that Stiles is infatuated, that he thinks patience and a long game will win Peter’s heart. He comes to pack meetings with food he snaps at the betas for sniffing, and preens when Peter enjoys. He comes to the apartment, smell of arousal and sated pleasure and come, and meets Peter’s eyes, cocky and sure. He offers gifts and endless messages and dry wit and snarky arguments and Peter  _ knows.  _

Peter knows, and he thinks if Stiles knew his own heart, the boy would have shoved him into bed, months ago, and he would have been helpless to stop it. 

No matter how much he should. He would have been helpless to stop it. 

 

~*~

 

“You turned him down,” Derek says and Peter’s shoulders tighten. 

“How very perceptive, nephew. Did you struggle, coming to that particular conclusion?” 

“Don’t be an ass,” Derek snaps, and he comes to stand in front of his uncle. “Why?” 

“Be more specific,” Peter drawls and Derek snarls, sharp and wet, his eyes flaring red. Peter smirks and finishes his coffee. 

“ _ Why?  _ You  _ hurt _ him.” 

He knows. He  _ knows _ and it is driving him mad, that knowledge, the wolf in him snarling to get free, to go to the boy, to wipe away the sadness and kiss his red bitten lips and tell him yes, yes  _ yes, Stiles, anything,  _ yes.

He takes a breath. “He deserves better than me,” Peter says, the first, only, last selfless thing he will ever say. 

Being selfless, he has decided, is the fucking  _ worst. _

“Doesn’t he get to decide that?” Derek asks. 

“No,” Peter says. “He decided on me, and I--I won’t let him throw himself away on a creature like myself.” 

Derek stares at him, and he feels it, suddenly, the lurch in the air, and the rapid pounding heartbeat, and he remembers the spell Stiles found, to silence his heartbeat and mute his scent. 

Tricky little bastard. 

Derek smirks at him, and leans in as he listens to the clatter of feet on the spiral stairs. “Don’t you dare hurt him.” 

Peter can’t answer, because Stiles is there, standing in front of him, wide eyed, his cheeks stained red, and he looks as hopeful as he does furious. 

“You self-sacrificial  _ ass,” _ Stiles snarls and Peter lifts an eyebrow. 

“That’s certainly never been an accusation leveled at me.” 

“Stop,” Stiles snaps. “Just  _ stop. _ ” 

And he does. He does because he is tired. 

 

~*~

 

He fell in love with a boy, defiant and terrified, leaning over a bleeding girl on a muddy field, heart pounding too fast, scent thick with fear and still snarling. 

He fell in love with a boy, terrified and sassy, in a empty parking garage, rejecting a gift that he  _ wanted _ , sour with fear and want and confusion, and still fighting. 

He fell in love with a boy, wide eyed and pale, a burning bottle in his hand and determination in his eyes, sorrow mixing with resolution as he threw the bomb, sick and still determined. 

He fell in love with a boy, bruised and bloody in a warehouse, tears on his pale skin, reeking of pain and fear and blood, hands trembling and lies on his tongue, and still standing. 

He fell in love with a boy, furious and determined, forcing them to be pack, fighting to keep them alive, outclassed and outmatched, and still here. 

He fell in love. 

With every bit of every dichotomy that is Stiles, he fell in love. 

And he fought it, every goddamn second of the way. 

 

~*~

 

“Just--tell me why,” Stiles says, and it’s an order. 

Even if it wasn’t, Peter would answer. 

“Because you deserve better,” he says, simply. “If I lived a thousand lives, Stiles, I would still not be a fraction of what you deserve.” 

He is selfish and cruel and egotistical and never in the habit of denying himself what he wants. 

But Stiles--Stiles deserves so much more. 

“You  _ idiot,”  _ Stiles breathes and the world falls away as he hauls Peter into a kiss that’s furious and sweet, razor sharp and pillow soft, a sexy nip of teeth and the gentle chaste chase of lips, his grip bruising, his fingers gentle, a perfect contradiction of everything he’s ever loved and wanted about this gorgeous boy. 

“You  _ are  _ what I deserve, because you’re what I chose,” Stiles says, his voice savage and determined against Peter’s lips, and it doesn’t make sense. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

But Stiles, his brilliant beautiful human boy is glaring at him with all the strength of an alpha and his lips are wet against Peter’s and Peter--

Peter nods and kisses his boy again. 

~*~ 

Stiles may deserve more than Peter--nothing the boy will every say will change his mind about that. 

But he is determined too, and as he watches Stiles wake, lips kiss swollen and skin love bruised, he determines to spend the rest of his life, being everything Stiles deserves--perfectly imperfect and his. 


End file.
